Plain-Jane computer programmer Khloe Richardson needs a date—one to make the prince of her dreams jealous. Maybe then he'll finally see her as a desirable swan and not the ugly duckling in the second office from the left.

But when she bids on a bachelor at a charity auction, the man she wins is millionaire Niall Hunter—who once made intense, passionate love to her and then left without a word. She's determined not to let her guard down again—among other things—around the infamous Irish lothario.

Niall never imagined his penance for one hot-as-hell night with his best friend’s little sister would be transforming her from a shy wallflower to a sultry siren. Helping her attract another man is torture...especially when he promised his friend he’d stay away. Plus, she wants forever, and he's not a forever kind of guy. But Niall can't stop wanting her. Can't stop touching her. Can't stop, period. And damn if he can remember why he has to...

“I have the perfect shoes that will go with the dress,” the saleswoman said as she loosed the button and closure in the back. “Let me go pull them while I remember so we can put those aside as well.”

“Thanks, Lindsey.” Khloe smiled at the other woman in the dressing room cubicle’s mirror. Lindsey left, and Khloe slipped free of the dress, leaving her clad only in her bra and panties. As she removed a lovely blouse from its hanger, a knock reverberated on the door.

That was quick, Lindsey. “Come on in.”

A large inhalation of breath jerked her head around.

Niall.

Shock rocketed through her, jarring, jolting—electrifying.

Blue fire flared and smoldered in his gaze, drying up the moisture in her mouth. His skin, drawn tight across his facial bones, emphasized the carnal fullness of his mouth. Slowly, he reached behind him and shut the door. Her heart thudded against her sternum. And her world narrowed down to the space between them that steadily decreased as he stalked closer…and closer…

He closed his fingers around the hand clutching the blouse to her chest, and loosened her grip on it, casting the clothing to the side as if it were made of burlap instead of expensive silk. He lowered her arms, baring her to his hungry gaze.

Because it was hungry.

Her breasts rose and fell on her rapid, harsh drags of air, and he followed the movements with rapt concentration. Switching her wrists to one hand, he traced the flesh swelling above black lace, dipping a fingertip underneath the scalloped edge.

Nudging a beaded nipple.

She whimpered. Oh God. Before him, she hadn’t realized a conduit ran from her breasts straight to her clitoris. But with each swipe over the aching tip, he reminded her.

When he removed his touch, she bit her lip to imprison the plea for him to don’t stop. She parted her lips, prepared to beg but the words died a swift death on her tongue when he bent his head and captured her nipple with his hot, wet mouth.

Oh shit. Oh. Shit. Ohshitohshitohshit.

His tongue curled around her nipple through the bra, drawing it between his lips, and sucking hard. Up, up, up. She went to her tiptoes, a soft cry escaping her. Her fingers curled into her palms, needing to touch him, to clutch his head, and hold him to her.

“Niall,” she whispered.

“Chopsticks” pealed loudly, almost painful in the hushed, dense quiet broken only by her sighs and moans.

She blinked. Frowned. Her phone. How had her phone ended up in here with her?

Niall straightened, and the loss of his mouth on her vibrated inside her like a discordant chord. Frustration howled inside her. Releasing her wrists, he withdrew her cell from his pants pocket. But instead of handing it to her, he glanced down at the screen. The hunger in his expression fled, replaced by a forbidding coldness.

Niall swiped his thumb across the phone, and the ringer abruptly ceased.

“Wh-what?” she stuttered as he slipped the cell back into his pocket.

“You’re wet, aren’t you, Khloe?” he demanded, his brogue thicker, voice a harsh whip. His gaze dropped to the rigid points of her nipples, clearly visible through her bra. “And I made you that way. I’ll be damned if he benefits from what I caused. What’s mine.”

Naima Simone’s love of romance was first stirred by Johanna Lindsey and Linda Howard many years ago. Though her first attempt at writing a romance novel at age 11 never saw the light of day, her love of romance and writing has endured. Now, she spends her time creating stories of unique men and women who experience the dizzying heights of passion and the tender heat of love.

She is wife to Superman—or his non-Kryptonian, less bullet proof equivalent—and mother to the most awesome kids ever. They all live in perfect, domestically-challenged bliss in the southern United States.